


Reylo Box of Chocolates

by Inspirationalmisquotes



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: All the Camp, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, Rey is Ben's padawan AU, Romance, The Great Gatsby AU, WWII Pilot AU, Zombie Apocalypse, at long last there's smut, does not actually contain chocolate, literally pure fluff, more tags to come, pride and prejudice au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-22 09:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17660609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inspirationalmisquotes/pseuds/Inspirationalmisquotes
Summary: A box crammed with random bite-sized Reylo AU's. An assortment of milk and dark chocolate, camp, nougat, smut, toffee, fluff, and that one cluster of nuts that's lying about being chocolate. Happy Valentines Day!





	1. Cappuccino Crunch

**Author's Note:**

> As always, many thanks to the lovely and talented Pastel Wonder. You are a national treasure. <3

It doesn’t matter what time Rey leaves the house, she always gets stuck behind him.

She wishes she could be like every other run of the mill Brit, and drink English Breakfast out of a thimble-sized cup at home every morning. But between her classes and her internship and her practicum, Rey needs high-test caffeine.

She found a place she loves downtown within walking distance of campus. It’s perfect. Cozy and family-run, with french-cafe jazz playing in the background and festival lights draped like ivy over every surface. The coffee is amazing, and cumulatively cheaper than a Keurig. Rey goes Wednesdays, her busy days, right before her eight AM.

And every Wednesday, without fail, there he is-- six feet of Armani-clad, polo-playing, cake-eating, Atlas-shrugged-incarnate between her and her white chocolate mocha.

And he’s always fucking _staring_ at her. Like he’s sizing her up for a fight. Like he thinks he’s being a real gentleman for not remarking about her split ends or cheap shoes, or that she’s always out of breath from running to catch the bus.

He looks like a socialist’s idea of a Wells Fargo executive. Handsome, but not quite, because he’s always glowering, like he’s disgusted he has to be exposed to them, the common people, and he’s eager to retreat back to his underground lair with his ridiculously pretentious coffee order and return to swindling dementia-ridden retirees out of their life savings-- or whatever it is that his _stupid_ company does.

He’s always right in front of her. And his order. Takes. Forever.

It’s _coffee_. It shouldn’t take this long to make. Milk, sugar, cream, whip, sprinkles, straw. 

That’s all there is to it.

Leave it to the Americans to complicate something so simple. Honestly.

But it’s not _just_ a tall dark roast. No. There’s a very specific water-to-foam-to-espresso ratio that he has to spend an age explaining to the barista, as if she, idiot plebian that she is, hasn’t made it a million times already. What’s worse, the cafe has a five-dollar minimum, so in addition to waiting for his special fair-trade french-press Ethiopian Yirgacheffe monstrosity to fucking _brew_ , Rey has to wait for him to count the three dollars and thirty-eight cents in exact change.

First world problems, she knows.

But at seven-thirty in the morning, it’ll get to you.

He’s in front of her in line today, like always, and they stand together in their usual awkward silence while they wait for their coffee, staring at CD labels.

“Ray!”

Rey inches around him-- he’s built like the Hulk-- and snags the paper cup with her misspelled name scrawled on the side in loopy cursive. “Excuse me, sorry.” she grumbles.

She takes a sip and spits it out.

First of all.

Not an overreaction. It’s fucking _hot,_ and more importantly, bitter.

Second. Maybe not an overreaction, but probably a mistake, because when she does spit out whatever scalding asphalt and dishwater concoction she accidentally ingested, it lands on _his_ shoes, which are probably worth more than her tuition.

“Shit, sorry.” she says, automatically. Her hand jerks forward and a little more coffee sloshes out onto the lid. “I think this is yours.”

Wells Fargo glares down at her, like usual, like always, and takes a very pointed sip of the cup in his hand. He actually winces when he swallows. “Marshmallow?”

“And caramel.” says Rey. “Now we’re even.”

He hands her a cup labeled ‘BEN’. “Not quite even.”

Rey looks down at her own shoes. “These... are Payless.”

“No, that’s… I mean… I’ve been meaning…” he stutters, paper-white cheeks suddenly flushing an ugly, blotchy pink.

Rey lists her head and edges closer. She wonders if he’s having an aneurysm. “Are you okay?”

“Let me get the next one.” he says it so quickly it’s almost one word. He looks at the ground and shuffles his feet.

Rey stares up at him, blankly. “What?”

“Neverm-- I mean, if you want.” he goes back to glaring at his coffee lid. “Let me buy your coffee. Next time.”

She stares up at him, brows scrunched together in contemplation, half flattered, half suspicious. “Really?”

“Only if you want.” he grumbles. He looks down at her, suddenly almost accusatory. But there’s something else in his snobbish, scowling face Rey didn’t notice before. It’s a little wistful.

“No, no, that would be really nice.” says Rey, smiling apologetically. “It’s just… I’m seventeen.”

For a moment he looks panicked. “Shit, I’m so sorry--”

“I’m _kidding_.” Rey grins around the lip of her drink. “I’m twenty. Want to go out?”

“Yes.” he looks winded. Like he just ran an emotional marathon in six seconds. It’s _hilarious_. 

And all of a sudden he doesn’t seem so formidable. In that moment, Rey figures even if he is an evil oil baron, or whatever, she’ll at least get the fun of wearing Forever 21 to a five star restaurant. Maybe she can even reform him. It’ll be a fun little semester project.

She pops the lid off her drink and licks up the marshmallow fluff. “So,” she says, “What are you doing Friday?”


	2. Pecan Praline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Great Gatsby AU :)  
> Look, I know Poe is nothing like Tom, but **someone** has to be Tom. I don't make the rules.

  
Finn has never been so uncomfortable in all his life. 

He sits on the sofa next to Rose, her feet in his lap, his heart in his throat, watching the scene unfolding with horrified interest.

The room has two chaise lounges and a coffee table, set with sun-warmed refreshments and melting petit fours. A block of white sunshine on the carpet is carefully avoided by all. With every painstaking tick of the clock, the walls of the room seem to cinch tighter and tighter like the drawstrings of a bag. The heat is suffocating.

Rey sits on one of the lounges next to Solo with a block of ice wrapped in cheesecloth pressed to the nape of her neck. It melts down the back of her chemise and soaks the chiffon. She doesn't seem to notice. Finn has never seen her looking so forlorn, like a girl in the pictures who’s just seen a monster and is about to collapse.

“I suppose it’s the done thing, now.” Poe bristles, stalking corner to corner like a caged wildcat. His crisp, cheerful, pastel blue sports coat lies crumpled on the floor, where he threw it. His neat hair is raked up on end. “To sit back and make idle conversation with the man _fucking your wife._ ”

“Poe, don’t.” Rey pleads.

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this.” If anything, Solo seems to sit up straighter. He’s not smug, not quite-- but he is sure of himself, too confident to be goaded into one of the fits of rage he’s famous for. His voice is perfectly calm. He pats Rey on the shoulder, as if comforting a fretful child. “But your wife never loved you.”

All the air goes out of the room. Beside him, Rose squeaks and spills lukewarm water down her front.

“We should go.” Finn says, as soon as he’s found his voice.

“No.” Poe rounds on him, snarling. “No, you stay.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Dameron.” says Solo, in that same lofty, self-assured tone, as if he really does pity the man. He looks just as severe and menacing as always, and despite the heat and his signature all-black three-piece suit, he isn't sweating. “But Rey has only ever loved me. She’s loved me for five years.”

“Five years?” Through the veil of righteous fury, Finn can see a glimmer of real pain in his friend’s eyes. “This has been going on…” he gestures between them, stuttering. “F-for five years?”

“No.” Rey’s voice breaks.

“No, no, we couldn’t meet in person.” Solo squeezes her knee. “But we loved each other all along. Didn’t we Rey?”

She makes a soft noise of conflicted agreement and presses the ice block to her temple.

“No, you see,” Solo goes on, breathlessly, “She never loved you. I made her an offer five years ago, and she couldn’t take it.” He brushes a loose curl from Rey’s chignon off her neck. “She was too proud. Too stubborn. She was young… and she made a terrible mistake.” he strokes her skin with the backs of his knuckles, quietly reverent. “But all that’s over now.”

“Rey, this is madness.” Poe looks desperate. Helpless. “I-I--” he drags his hand through his hair again. “I know we’ve had our little… tiffs.”

“Tiffs.” Her head snaps up, and Finn sees that her eyes are red. “Did he tell you what happened in New Orleans?” Rey suddenly tears herself free of Solo’s soothing, restraining grip and rushes to the windows. He follows her. Rey shoves on the center pane of glass and the window snaps open. Stale, hot summer air seeps into the room. “Did he ever tell you why we had to flee North?”

“Hush.” Poe warns.

Rey grips the window frame. Solo nudges his beak nose against her temple, enveloping her small, sun-browned hand in his own. “Just tell him you never loved him.” he instructs, gently. “And we can put all this behind us.”

Rey meets his eyes. “That I… never loved him?”

“Never?” In an instant, the anger dissolves. Poe wilts. His shoulders go slack. “Rey?”

Her eyes well with tears.

“Rey?” Solo prompts her.

“Not in Monaco?” says Poe. “When we slept on the beach? Not when we flew across the English channel together?”

_“Don’t.”_

“Not in New York? Rey?”

“Rey?”

Her head lolls against his shoulder. “Oh, Ben. Isn’t it good enough I love you now?”

“You…” his smile is soft, but dazed-- as if he’s just been stricken and hasn’t yet begun to feel the pain.  
“You love me. Now.”

“She’s never been yours, Solo.” says Poe, brazenly, but his voice is weak and reedy. “She belongs with me, and Rose and Finn, and _respectable_ people.”

“I think we all ought to go home.”

“Finn, be quiet.”

“You’ve got her all excited.” Solo trails after Rey as she darts off again, snagging her under his arm as if she needs shielding from some harsh wind. He lights her cigarette. “There, now, darling.” he murmurs to her, petting her hair. “Let’s go home.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And if you don't know how Gatsby ends, I'll stop here ;)  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Vanilla Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wedding <3  
> Thanks for reading!!!

They officiate their own wedding.

They write their own vows.

It’s a union, fake and feeble, doomed from the start, but a union all the same. She never thought they’d get round to having one. Rey weeps with joy the whole way through.

Ben puts her hair up in Alderaanian braids. 

Rey makes them rings out of daisy chains.

It’s as much an act of desperation as anything else. No man’s land is weathering away. Their fleets are bearing down on each other. They’re running out of time and neither is willing to cede victory. Their fights are more frequent now, more physical and intense. There are no lazy sleepy mornings under the sheets, like there were in the beginning. They don’t sit with her curled on his lap, holding hands and taking turns reading pages from the same book. They don’t look at each other when they make love.

They fuck like animals. That’s what they do. They fuck like they hate each other.

Rey is starting to come to terms with the idea that they may not both live through this war.

He made the suggestion at the most romantic of times. Rey had just climbed off his face and flopped back on the cot beside him, breathless and rattled, gulping down recycled air like she was drowning, when she heard his voice from far away.

“You can’t be serious.”

Ben had shrugged, staring up at the low aluminum ceiling, licking his fingers. “Just an idea.”

“Where? _When?_ ”

“Tomorrow. Where do you want to go most? In all the galaxy?”

She’d told him.

“It’s a date.” he’d said. “Wear something pretty.”

It’s nothing new, these little getaways. They go away together all the time. It’s the only way they ever see each other.

The location varies, but the routine never does. They’re always garden-variety flings. A few scattered, hour-long rendezvous-- usually somewhere tropical, if Rey has a say-- and then it’s clothes on, hurry home, back to business as usual.

Business as usual being fraught, fearsome, life-threatening galaxy-wide warfare.

It’s all very romantic.

In the beginning, they met in closets and empty conference rooms. Like _amateurs_. And never in person. Only through the bond.

Things between them have gotten a little more lackadaisical in the past six months.

Which is not to say things are dull.

Last time they were on a beach on one of the few remaining Edenic pacifist worlds he hasn’t gotten around to blowing up yet, and in trying to guess Rey’s age-- she’s loathe to admit she just doesn’t _know_ \-- he offered to give her an orgasm for every year she’d been alive.

“You can’t do that.” Rey had actually snickered. “Not possible.”

She should have known better than to challenge him _beforehand_.

She tends to forget; he’s ruthlessly competitive.

Ben had guessed. And rounded up.

Rey had staggered home to the Resistance four hours later than she intended. Someone likely questioned her absence. Probably. Rey doesn’t really remember.

She’s still not sure what she was even _saying_ to people.

This is like that. Spur-of-the-moment, misguided, fun while they’re doing it.

They marry at dusk on Naboo in a soggy, riverside orchard where the sunlights sieves through a grainy canopy of feather-fine leaves and flowering boughs. There are no guests. He recites from some ancient Jedi text for a minute in a half, then they say “I love you” and kiss.

It’s not real. Not technically. They need a witness and an officiant. There should be some written record.   
Rey tells him so, so Ben scours their initials into the ground with the tip of his saber.

“That’s legally binding.” he tells her.

“It is?”

He thinks about it a moment, then shrugs. “I’m Supreme Leader.” he says. “My word is law.”

It’s the first time she’s ever heard him say anything like that.

Afterwards, he takes her in a field of flowers under the stars. It’s droll and vanilla. “There,” he says, when it’s over. “We’re married now.”

“That was beautiful, darling.” she kisses his temple. “Thank you.”

Rey looks at her hand on his shoulder. She stares at her ring in the waning gray light.

It’s going to wither and rot. It probably won’t last till morning.

“Don’t think like that.” he rolls them over. Her chin clacks against his breastbone.

“Sorry.”

His hands sift through her hair. It’s such a familiar gesture. They hardly touch each other like this anymore.  
It’s been a little less than a year. Their bond ebbs between being either intimate or physical, and right now Rey isn’t sure which phase they’re in.

The ground is still warm from the sun, sponguey with flowers and clover like patchwork, a little pocket grove of summer in a galaxy of ice and snow.

Carefully, clumsily, he bundles her up against his side and props her head on his shoulder. He knows how she hates the cold.

“Rey,” he says, in a tense, endearing tone that forebodes lousy but well-meaning humor, “Now that you are my legal property, I command you to stop thinking about the future.”

He’s so seldom flippant, so seldom _sweet_ , that she giggles a little in spite of everything.

“I’m not thinking about it.”

He grumbles skeptically.

Rey snuggles up next to him. They don’t quite fit together. They never too. He’s too big and hard and heavily-armored. She’s all knees and elbows.

She’s still not afraid of him. Maybe she should be.

This is all going to end someday soon.

Ben turns his head so his nose smushes against hers. “Legally binding.” he reminds her.

Her thoughts are always so loud. She can’t help it.

“Legally binding.” she nods, and the motion rocks his head with hers.


	4. Cashew Cluster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zombie Apocalypse AU. Enjoy :)

Rey really shouldn’t be here.

She’s had it drilled into her head since the day she staggered, starved and hypothermic and bleeding, onto Resistance territory.

_Fear the living_.

In today’s world, property lines are not mere suggestions. Everything from the forests to the lake is First Order territory. That’s non-negotiable.

Rey’s heard stories about how they leash zombies to trees like guard dogs. There are dug-out holes full of sharpened sticks, bear traps and piano wire, snake pits and trenches filled with broken glass. The works.

Some of that’s probably an exaggeration, Rey tells herself, as she skips neatly over the line, painted stark and white over the grass like a boundary line in football.

It can’t all be true.

It’s still a really, _really_ , bad idea.

This forest is nothing like theirs is on the other side of the river. It’s darker. Denser. The trees are oak, so wide around Rey isn’t sure she could wrap her arms around them. She feels confident the First Order couldn’t even dig a snake pit through all the roots.

She wades through the briar and jewelweed to a glade, where the ground slopes down in a rain-slicked carpet of moss. She steps out into the clearing and her eyes adjust to the light. Through the gaps in the branches overhead, the moon is so bright she can see every blade of grass.

She checks the compass she found in a box of cracker jacks. The base can’t be too much further, unless its in the middle of the lake.

Rey sets off and stops mid-step at the sound of a cracking twig.

She sighs. And turns around.

It’s a zombie. And it’s not on a leash.

It’s an old man, frail and thin, a skeletal mass of blood and rot and flesh like warped tupperware. It makes a guttural noise and stumbles towards her, gnashing it’s saw-blade teeth.

It doesn’t matter how many times Rey sees it. She will never get over this. This sight will never not phase her.

She reaches for the gun MacGyver-ed to her thigh with duct tape and a USB cord. For a moment she wavers, rocking back and forth on her feet, torn between taking the shot and blowing her cover or making a run for it.

It isn’t moving too fast. One of its legs is shorter than the other. She could probably outrun it.

Correction. She probably could have outrun it if she had made her decision a half-second sooner.

It snarls and lunges. Rey comes face-to-jaws with death itself.

For a moment, she can’t move. Can’t breathe. She scrabbles at the rocks beneath her, searching for one big enough to club him, and then there’s the crack of a gunshot, and the corpse falls across her in a spray of sinew and gore.

Rey kicks off the dead zombie and scrambles to her feet. Her ears pop. Her throat burns. She wonders if she hasn’t been shot in the head herself.

“Hey.” A low, unfamiliar voice rings through the darkness, and Rey leaps out of her skin.

“Who are you?” she shrieks.

A tall figure steps into the light. He’s pallid and dark-haired, towering over her by a least a foot, with an rifle dangling from his forefingers and the ghost of a smile in the crook of his mouth. He’s wearing a concert T-shirt with a rip over the right shoulder that’s so faded she can’t tell what band it is. “You’re new.” he says, unnecessarily. He looks her over with an expression of something Rey can’t quite place.

Rey feels suddenly very self conscious. She’s sure her hair is standing straight up and stuck to her forehead with sweat. She’s dripping with stale, blackened blood that’s not hers. Her jean shorts are soaked with it. “I-- I--” she squares her shoulders and wipes her face with the heel of her hand. “I’m Rey Niima. I’m from--”

“Resistance.” he notches the rifle over his shoulder and stares down at her. He doesn’t seem cocky, or smug, or even a little bit threatening. He just seems curious. As if she’s just dropped out of the sky, like they’re in on this together.

He comes within a foot of her and lists his head. 

Rey cranes her neck.

Good sense tells her to shoot him and run. It also suggested she not trespass on First Order territory on her own. Rey’s not in the habit of listening to her good sense.

“So, Rey Niima. What brings you here?” he asks. His voice is oddly soft. 

The word catches in her throat, but Rey wrenches them out. “My friend Rose is sick.” she says. “She has tetanus.”

He nods, once.

“I’ve heard your people have penicillin.”

“And antibiotics.”

Rey moves forward a fraction of an inch, scarcely daring to believe it. “Can you help me?”

He stalls, but she senses he’s already reached a decision. “Sure.”

“Oh, thank you.” Rey clasps her hands and does her best not to skip with joy. “I told them you weren’t all bad.”

His mouth quirks at the corner again. He starts walking up the hill. “Come with me.”

“What’s your name?” Rey scampers after him, hurrying to keep up.

“...Ben.”

Silently, Rey heaves a sigh of relief. At least he’s not one of the officers.


	5. Almond Truffle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domestic drabble, light smut. Enjoy!

“Oh shut _up_.”

“Right there. By my ear.”

“You’re not going gray.” Rey cranes her head and inspects the silken, pitch-black strands that curl around his temple. “It’s just the lighting.” On a whim, she bites his ear.

“Ouch. Yes I am. Look at that.” he points to an invisible gray streak.

He gets like this sometimes. It’s rare, but it happens. When she first met him, Rey was sure that Ben’s cold, abrasive, steely exterior was just that-- and that at his core he was just as real and unpolished as everyone else.

He isn’t, really. When they take off their clothes to have sex, he insists on hanging up his shirts. When Rey moved in, all he had in the fridge was meat and some raw vegetables. His curtains were black. Fucking _black_. The only fiction books in his collection were old Russian classics.

At least she knew for sure there was no other woman in his life.

Rarely is he like this; goofy and flip, bouncing around the house and sing-talking eighties music, ruffling her hair and then pretending it wasn’t him.

Rey loves when he’s like this.

“I’m so ollllld.” his head lulls onto her shoulder.

She kisses the red teeth-marks on his ear. “What do you want to do today?”

“Strip monopoly.”

“Pray tell.”

He wriggles his fingers under her shirt and tickles her back.

“Ben.”

“Let’s stay in.” he pulls her towards the couch.

Rey follows, only because her hand is attached to her, and she has no chance of breaking his grip. She lets herself be manhandled into his lap and wriggles in protest. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“Mmm.”

“Finn and Rose are going to the beach. I’m sure they’d let us join them.”

“College kids who hate me?” Ben draws between his teeth a sliver of love-marked skin on her neck and nibbles. “Sign me the fuck up.”

“They don’t hate you.”

“Mmm.” His blunt, strong fingers rub along the seam of her jeans. He finds her clit and presses down till she whimpers. “There will be plenty of other beautiful days.”

Rey sticks a mental pin in the argument she has, bound and determined to return to it later. She can’t quite bring herself to focus on it now.

His fingers deftly unfasten her jeans and slip into her underwear, and Rey starts to squirm away, because all at once it feels too good and too much too soon and she wants to savor this, make it last.

Because it feels that good when he fingers her. It’s so basic. Kids stuff. But it never feels like it with Ben.

He’s…. Intense. He’s not a quickie-in-the-backseat kind of guy.

Rey settles herself over his lap with her forehead notched between his neck and shoulder. He parts her folds with practiced ease and hooks a finger into her.

“Shhhh,” He soothes, as she jerks her hips and babbles for more. He rakes his free hand through her hair and winds it around his palm.

“Ben—“

“I know.” He teases a second finger and pulls it away. “Be patient.”

She bucks her hips and he catches her waist, holding her still, chuckling faintly. “I knew you were going to do that.”

“Like you’re so unpredictable.”

“Nah.” he concedes. The finger inside her curls and strokes. “Think I can make you come like this?”

“Ben.”

“Just one finger?”

She whines and drops her head back to his shoulder. He _loves_ this. Loves it. Nevermind that his hands are huge, and his fingers are thick and freakishly long, and when he’s distracting her like this of course he can make her come easy, she isn’t paying attention--

He gets her. The tip of his finger scrapes over her sweet spot and digs in. It isn’t enough it's too soon she isn’t even undressed yet it isn’t fair--

“Hey, hey.” The pad of his thumb rubs soothing circles over her clit. “Hey. Shhh. It’s okay. We can go again.”

“Jerk.” she says, her mouth crushed to his shirtsleeve. “I wasn’t ready.”

He clicks his tongue skeptically, raking his fingers through her folds, making her gasp and wriggle her hips away. “Feels like you were.”

“I want to go again.” she straightens as much as she can, still hunched over his lap with his hand on her ass. She can’t help it if she sounds a little competitive. “Stick it in.”

He lists his head and sucks his teeth, pretending to consider it. “I’ll think about it.”

“ _Ben_.”


	6. Hazelnut Croquant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pride and Prejudice, failed proposal scene

It’s miserable weather, and miserable timing.

He corners her on the veranda. Rain sweeps down in icy, horizontal gales across the plains and pulls at the trees as if trying to uproot them. There’s a storm bristling irritably on the horizon and a ringing in her ears. She’s just returned from church. In a way, she’s glad to see him now, with the sting of his separating Rose and Finn still fresh in her memory, granting her nerve and momentum to give him a piece of her mind.

Another part of her-- a coy, quiet sliver of vanity-- wishes she were better dressed, and that her hair weren’t wind-ruffled or mussed with rainwater, that she were wearing perfume and had a clean handkerchief and her rice-seed pearl necklace and a flower in her cap for good measure.

She settles for standing a little straighter. “Good day, Mr. Solo.”

“I had to see you.” he crosses from the corner pillar of the veranda to a foot in front of her in the span of a few quick strides. 

“What is it?”

He stares at her like he’s trying to take her in, like he has seconds left of sight before he goes totally blind.

“Mr. Solo?” she prompts.

“I had something…” he shuffles his waterlogged boots. “Something I wanted to ask you.”

She squares her shoulders, expecting it to be something to do with the estate, or her poor breeding, or something equally unimportant and offensive.

She’s half right.

“Despite my best efforts, over these past few months I’ve developed a fondness of you.” he says, quickly, addressing an embroidered fleur-de-lis on her dress.

“Mr. Solo.”

“There’s nothing for you here.” he jerks his head indicatively towards the span of the Skywalker estate, the rain-drenched sea of brittle yellow grass and shabby, sunken farmland. “You’ll be no one, if you stay here.”

“Mr. Solo--”

“You have no dowry. No title. You’re little more than a kitchen maid.”

For a moment, Rey stands there, frozen with horrified indignation. He must mistake her silence for active listening.

He jerks his head again, this time toward the house, a gesture of inexpressible disdain. “Who would my uncle have you marry, to save you from spinsterhood? The footman? The gardner?”

“Both of whom are perfectly respectable young _gentlemen_ \--”

“To someone of your breeding, I am sure they seem more than suitable.” he scoffs. “And despite all that, I find myself…” he looks at her and swallows. “Strangely… drawn to you. Against my will and better judgement.”

His eyes search hers. Rey steps back to the edge of the veranda, unconscious of the rain.

“Are you trying to tell me you love me?”

He closes the space between them, his knees brushing the skirt of her dress. Rey has to tip her head all the way back to look at him. 

“Ardently.”

Rey feels her eyes prickle with tears. She feels belittled and humiliated. And stunned into silence.

“I love you. I don’t wish to ever be parted from you. I want you to come with me when I return to America.” he offers his hand. “Join me in marriage.”

She blinks, and tears bead on her lashes.

His lips barely move. His voice is little more than a breathless whisper. “Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Find me on tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inspirationalmisquotes


	7. Black Currant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonnie and Clyde  
> Borrowed the lovely character Amelia from Pastelwonder <3

She’s making hot chocolate when she meets him.

The Texas heat presses down on the world like a hot iron, crushing her into the dust, but Sunday hot chocolate is a ritual, and she and Rose will need an excuse to pass on the gin when the boys offer. Rey’s not so desperate for a buzz she’s willing to drink anything made in a bathtub.

There’s a rap on the door that rattles the screen in it’s frame.

“Come in!” she yells, thinking it’s Rose. She sifts cocoa into the saucepan and stirs.

There’s shuffling, the sound of shoes being kicked off. Something clatters and a dark, deep, rich voice mutters a curse. The kitchen door frame groans as someone leans against it. “Hey.”

Rey turns around at the waist and looks at the stranger. And all at once the world screeches to a halt around her.

Her hands automatically fly to her hair. She dusts cocoa off her weathered day-dress.

The stranger in the doorway cracks a smile that doesn’t quite fit his face. “What’s your name, Darlin’?”

***

“Just like I told you.”

“Yeah.”

He presses a kiss to her temple. “Don’t use it unless you’ve got to.”

Rey clicks the safety off.

They make off with two-hundred dollars and the front page.

***

It’s one hell of a way to live. Ben tells her to think of it as one long road trip, but Rey doesn’t need convincing.

This is heaven on Earth.

They drive all day and plan at night and strike in the earliest hours of the lily-white spring Sunday mornings, in places no one sees them coming. Rowena. Talico. Little suburbs no one’s ever heard him where the money’s good and the tellers’ guard is down. They zig-zag across county lines in a painfully predictable pattern. They can afford to be cocky. These are their glory days. The law don’t know what hit ‘em.

***

“Benny?” Rey cards her fingers through his hair. “Did you ever want to be somethin’ else?”

He presses his cool cheek to her breastbone. He exhales. His breath stirs the dry, sweet summer air between them. “‘sides Al Capone, you mean?”

“I’m serious. Before the crash.”

He tugs at a button on her dress with his teeth. “Long time ago? ‘Fore I knew what lousy cowards they were? A cop. What ‘bout you, Baby?”

“A movie star.” Rey doesn’t miss a beat. “Since I was a little girl.”

Ben drew himself up onto his forearms and looked her in the eye. Rey’s heart skipped a beat. “You’d have been the best.” he told her. “An’ the most beautiful, too.”

***

After two weeks of being backup, Rey decides she wants in on the fun. “I want to help you pull a job.” she tells him, in the middle of sex, which she thinks is fairly clever on her part.

“Yes.” he snarls, ramming into her like he’s trying to nail her to the roof of the car. “Fucking yes. Whatever you want.”

They partner up with Ben’s friend Hux and his girl; a pretty soft-spoken living-doll French immigrant named Amelia, who trails after Rey and laughs at her every joke and is perfectly content to be the getaway driver. Rey likes her tremendously.

It’s a bit like vacation. Driving and dancing and drinking under the white summer starlight, careening from town to town like gypsies, going in guns blazing and strolling back out through a cloud of smoke rich as kings.

Rey figures they’ll live forever.

***

The pull two jobs off without a hitch. Rey stands with a revolver in each hand while the boys fill flour sacks with cash.

The third time, an old timey teller decides to be a hero and Ben has to take him out. They get away from Captain Skywalker and his fucking cops by the skin of their teeth. But everything’s okay. They make it across state lines into Louisiana and start from scratch. They’ve still got enough money for gas and cigarettes and liquor.

A week after the botched job outside Dallas, Ben buys her a real-life honest-to-goodness camera and tells her he’s willing to pose for portraits with her. It’s the best gift she’s ever gotten.

Sure, times are still tough and they’ve got the law on their tail and their faces are plastered on every telephone pole from here to Mississippi. But they’re together. They’re making ends meet.

Everyone has a calling. Rey thinks armed robbery might be hers.

***

They tear through three states, some seven banks, two credit unions, and a slew of roach-ridden motels where theirs aren’t the only fake names in the guest book. They live off cheap beer and potato chips. They fuck in the car because the motel beds always rattle and spit up clouds of dust.

It’s heaven on Earth.

They work with Hux on and off, but they’re getting too high-profile to travel together all the time. They have to lay low for a while. She and Ben motel hop and live out of one shared suitcase.

Rey thinks it’s so elegant. If she can’t be in the picture show, she thinks this is the next best thing.

Ben likes what they do. But he doesn’t see the fun in it. He doesn’t collect their headlines or clip their names out of the paper.

“Just what we need.” he snorts, when she shows him the front page.

Rey studies it. “I think it’s very glamorous.”

He ruffles her hair and kicks the car into gear. “You look like a movie star, Baby.”

Rey preens and kisses his picture.

***

Three people die. It’s an accident. Collateral. Ben says in their line of work, it was only a matter of time.

The fact that one of the deaths happens on Christmas doesn’t really sway the masses in their favor.

Ben knew it was coming. He’s got this sort of second-sight. He says she has it too, she just never learned how to use it. 

“There’s gonna be somethin’.” he told her, weeks ago. “Our luck’s gonna change soon, prolly for the worse, an’ I don’t want you to worry.” he’d thumbed her cheek and rested his forehead against hers. “No matter what, I’m gonna take care of you.”

“An’ I’ll take care of you.”

He’d snickered at that, though he tried his best to hide it. “I know you will, Sugar.”

After that, everywhere they go, bodies stack up.

It’s not that they wanted it to happen. It’s just that sometimes people get in the way, and Ben and Rey can’t afford to slow down for anybody. Not even cops. Not even on Christmas.

Rey writes a letter home to Rose and Finn, and for the first time, she doesn’t get one back.

***

They practice their aim shooting at birds and make love in the dry Texas heat.

They hold up a gas station in Jacksonville and stay on the road for two days.

They don’t have money leftover for cigarettes.

Ben tells her not to worry. He holds her hand while he drives and kisses her knuckles and promises he’ll take care of her. “What kind of man would I be, if I let my best girl go hungry?” He says.

So Rey doesn’t tell him when she’s hungry.

He’s getting thin, but he always gives her the bigger half of whatever they manage to scrounge up. They can’t afford motels anymore, so they drive into the woods and sleep in the backseat together. Ben keeps a revolver under the driver’s seat just in case.

The law is bearing down. They can’t pull big jobs anymore, only gas stations here and there, and round these parts— well, everywhere now, Rey realizes— everyone has nothing.

And they’re running out of road. 

***

Rey can’t pinpoint the exact moment they go from being outlaws to being fugitives.

But the day Ben pulls the car over and empties a full clip into a tree, kicks over a fencepost, and curses Captain Skywalker into oblivion--

That might be it.

“It’s okay.” she reaches for him when he comes back to the car, leaning out the window.

He dips his head and his eyes fall shut. Rey strokes his hair off his forehead.

“We’re together.” she pets his cheek. It’s pale and clammy as ever, despite the heat. “That’s all that matters.”

He kisses her palm. Then he gets back in the car and hauls her into his lap and loves her till she comes so hard she slumps back against the horn and startles a flock of birds out of a tree.

***

Can’t run forever.

But they almost did.

The law corners them in a fucking cornfield, of all things. Ben drives like a maniac. He always does. Shooting one-handed through the broken rear window.

When it’s over, he takes his hands off the wheel and tries to cover her, like he’s bulletproof. Like they’re not both already dead.

A hail of bullets wrack them like rag dolls, tear them limb from limb. It hurts so much. It hurts more than Rey ever knew anything could. But funny enough, she’s not thinking about that. She’s not thinking about anything but Ben’s arms around her, and how this is how it was always meant to be, always has been, always will be.

The world snaps closed like the shutter of her camera, and as she’s pitched forward into blackness, Rey thinks if they had to go down, they may as well go down together. May as well go down in history.

Rey finds Ben’s hand in the darkness, and the world drops dead around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inspirationalmisquotes if you want to come hang out (:


	8. Salted Caramel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rey is Ben's Padawan AU

Rey cheats.

At everything.

A lot.

She’s very good at it. Slight of hand. Cards up her sleeve. Games and quizzes, contests, sports. It’s the one thing Ben can’t break her of. Under his mentoring, she’s come to see the value of eating utensils and shoes, but on this issue, there is no civilizing her. Luke calls her a gypsy child.

“If you cheat, your friends won’t want to play with you.” he warns her.

She blinks up at him. “Of course not. That’s why you have to be sneaky about it.” Then she scoffs and rolls her eyes, like _he’s_ the ridiculous one, like he has so much to learn from her.

It aggravates him like nothing else. Rules are important to him. He can’t quite explain why. They help him organize his thoughts and control his impulses. They help him compartmentalize. His first year at the academy, he and his roommate shared a room until the curfew-breaking annoyed Ben so much, he started locking him out. Remy was a good sport about it. He just bought another mat and set up camp in the hallway.

“I am going to cheat.” Rey declares to the table, as they assemble the pieces of the board game. “If you want to win, you’ll have to stop me.”

She seems to think announcing it is a fair compromise.

As game progresses, the objective among himself and the other players collectively becomes less about winning and more about remembering where all the game pieces were originally, who had how many tokens, and trying to catch Rey in the act.

It works for her, like everything does. Her friends still want to play.

She cheats on the quizzes he gives her like her life depends on it.

“I know for a fact you didn’t know this one.” he stands behind her and circles number 7 with red pen.

“This wasn’t even in your reading.”

“ _That’s _cheating.” Rey says, haughtily, sucking on the stem of her cherry. He told her if she could pass her exam without incident, he’d teach her to tie a knot in the stem with her tongue. “You tried to trick me.”__

__“How are you even getting these answers?”_ _

__She ducks her head and slips her finger between her lips. “Ah studahed.” her head pops up so violently she almost hits him in the nose. “See Ben?” she pushes the stem between her stained red lips and gestures excitedly. “All bah mahself!”_ _

__Ben ignores her, reaching under her arm to snag the scrap of paper. Under his tidy cursive scrawl, she’s written her short-answers mainly in pictographs and binary. They’re all barely legible. But for the most part correct._ _

__Rey flounces away from the table and sits on his bed with a handful of fresh black cherries rolled up in the front of her tunic._ _

__It annoys him like nothing else._ _

__But he’s slow to reprimand her, even in this case. He’s not sure she has it in her to understand why she’s wrong._ _

__She’s lived too long the way she has. She’s not cheating. She’s tricking. She’s not lying. She’s _pretending.__ _

__The line between fantasy and reality has always been a bit blurred for her._ _

__“I don’t _lie,_ Ben.” she always looks so hurt at the accusation. Lying is _bad_. Rey is _good._ She doesn’t lie. “I just made it up.”_ _

__She knows fact from fiction.But it’s safe in her imagination. It’s neverland. Why would she ever leave it behind?_ _

__He draws a star on her paper and sets it aside. Then he teaches her to tie a cherry knot with her tongue._ _

__Sometimes he’ll catch her staring out a window, and he’ll pick up on a fragment of memory. A snapshot. A flash of color or sound._ _

__Usually, he just feels the heat. She’ll never forget the heat of the desert if she lives to be a hundred._ _

__The heat on Jakku was like nothing else. A faint, flat feeling, the weight of the world, a dull blade that crushed her into the sand. It was more than a mere pestilence. It was hell. Some days it was the only thing worse than the loneliness. Or the boredom._ _

__Rey had been so lonely. And so. So bored._ _

__She’d sewn dolls together out of wire and canvas scraps and had a little hospital in the corner of her hovel, and sang them back to health with songs she made up on the spot. She’d written stories in her head and lived in her fantasies._ _

__It hadn’t been madness. It had been the only thing that kept her sane._ _

__“Ben?” says Rey._ _

__He glances up from their sandcastle._ _

__They’re on their special place on the beach late in the afternoon. The sun is slinking down over the water and the waves lap restlessly against the shore. She’s naked except for a towel. He’s rolled the hem of his pants up and ventured into the water as far as his ankles._ _

__They’re drying in the waning sunlight, skin tacky with salt, finishing the moat around their sandcastle._ _

__“Yes, Rey?” Ben snaps a twig into bits and begins constructing a fence around the moat. Rey insisted. She’s big on sandcastle home security._ _

__“Why do you think they left me?” her sunburnt lips are knotted curiously and her eyes are fixed on the sand. She looks focused and intense, but not quite sad. She looks like she does when she’s writing the essay portion of her exams._ _

__“Well…” Ben stalls, cupping his hand and deepening the groove of the trench._ _

__Rey’s sandcastles are always much less illustrious than they’re supposed to be. She doesn’t believe in tiers or pillars or seaweed tapestries. Rey likes “cozies.” She likes slate lean-tos with milkweed bedding and clear property lines. She likes to make rows for gardens in the sand and fences out of driftwood._ _

__“Well,” he says again, “They meant to come back for you. I’m sure of it.”_ _

__She picks at a grain of sand under her nail. “How do you know?”_ _

__“I know.” he says, solemnly. “They left you with Plutt because they thought he would feed you. They knew if they kept you with them, they wouldn’t be able to provide for you. They always meant to come back.”_ _

__Rey drags lines in the sand with a stick._ _

__“And then they got sick and passed away. Or they were in an accident.” he says. “But whatever happened-- Rey, I’m sure they _meant_ to come back for you.”_ _

__Her lips quirk. She flicks her damp, stringy hair over her shoulder with an air of “I know _that,_ Benjamin,” like she does when he tells her she has to press a button to make the elevator go, or that the word is not pronounced “hypmotize”._ _

__“They wouldn’t have left you unless they absolutely had to.” he tells her._ _

__He isn’t lying. Lying is bad._ _

__He’s just pretending._ _

__There’s a difference._ _

__“I know.” she preens. “They loved me.”_ _

__“Of _course_ they did.”_ _

__“And you love me.”_ _

__His throat aches with emotion. He takes a moment to catch his bearings and assemble the seashell drawbridge. Two syllables. That shouldn’t be so difficult._ _

__His voice still cracks. “I do.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for your lovely feedback and support <3  
> I'm on tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inspirationalmisquotes


	9. Peanut Butter Cup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1940s Pilot AU. Short one this time.

Rey walked out onto the tarmac. She felt like Amelia Earhart, with her khakis and rolled-up white sleeves and her bobbed hair tied back with a scarf.

The day was young, soft and infantile, unfurling drowsily on the horizon. The air was cold and blue. Perfect for flying. A flock of army-green Bf-109’s skidded noisily across the skyline in their morning drills.

Rey sized up the model at the end of her row. From twenty paces, it looked perfect. Smooth, varnished slate-blue steel molded supply into a bird that would melt right into the English sky. There was a dent under one of the wings that was probably purely cosmetic, and a missing tile-sized plate of panel that Rose, if she’d seen it, would call a ‘skinned knee.’ Probably nothing major. As long as the engine wasn’t in danger of falling out, the girls back at the shop didn’t put much stock in missing plating. But it was two hours till she needed to be back on base. Rey ducked under the wing to have a look.

There was a crunch of footsteps on loose gravel from somewhere behind her. “What are you doing?” said a man’s voice.

Rey hadn’t startled easily since the London bombings. She didn’t jump, or turn around. She stuck her tongue between her teeth and screwed up her face in concentration. “Just a second.”

“That’s my plane.” The voice was calm, observational. “Who are you?”

“Rey Niima.” she glanced back over her shoulder.

He was tall and broad, with hair so black it was almost blue, and pale skin scorched red from being close to the sun at all hours of the day. A pilot. There was a worldly, rugged, wind-worn quality to him that Rey both adored and envied.

“Where are you from?” the man asked.

“London.”

“And what brings a pretty girl like you to a place like this? You look like you should still be in school.”

“It’s not so bad here.” Rey couldn’t let herself forget. Essex was hardly the war-wracked hellscape the boys were facing overseas. “I’m a mechanic.”

The man nodded approvingly, his long, sweet, awkward face twisting a little in charmed mystification. “You ever been flying?” he stuck his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket.

“Twice. I don’t get to, often, unless it’s for a test. And then we just have to go in circles.”

“Huh.” he had a face that wasn’t meant for smiling, and it was charmingly awful when he tried. He glanced up at the sky. “Maybe I’ll take you someday.”

Rey scoffed and buried her smile in the sleeve of her jacket. She turned around and pretended to go back to inspecting the missing panel.

“Come on, I’m serious.”

Rey shouldered her toolbox. “I’ve got to get going. My Supervisor will be wondering where I am.”

“When do you get off?”

“Five.”

“Buy you a coke?”

Rey bit the corners of her mouth to smother a smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Five-ten, then?” he followed her along the dashed white lines of the tarmac. His hands were still in his pockets. He looked affable, and comfortable, and perfectly confident she would give in eventually.

“I said I’ll think about it.”

“How bout I make it an ice cream soda?” he goaded, still grinning that awful, darling lopsided grin. “And I’ll take you flying tonight.”

That stopped Rey short. “Are you serious?”

He didn’t blink. “I’m Ben, actually. Ben Solo.”

“Ha.”

“Okay, Doll, how’s this--midnight flying lesson, ice cream soda, and you can have my cherry. Final offer.” He offered his hand. “Deal?”

Rey felt a flutter low in her belly, something akin to the first time she went flying. Nerves, excitement, panic, exhilaration. She smiled, tentatively, and clapped her hand into his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) happy Valentine’s Day Eve


	10. Strawberry Bon Bon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Valentines Day! <3  
> Dirty talk and some mildly rough sex. It's all in good fun.

When you’ve been together as long as Ben and Rey have, Valentine’s Day is more of a competition than anything else.

They’ve had four years of gag gifts. They’ve done all the cliches. Handcuffs, blindfolds, lingerie, whipped cream. It's not about sincerity. It's about who can buy the bigger box of chocolates or send the more embarrassing singing candy gram. They say "I love you" year round, but they're not the romantic sort. It’s not a holiday they take seriously. Watching Terminator is their only tradition.

Rey lounges in front of the television with the movie paused in the opening credits, in her frilly, feathery Victoria’s Secret kimono, eating popcorn tossed with pink Reese's Pieces. She makes the mistake of telling him, in passing, “You can’t talk dirty.” She’s not even sure how it came up.

“The fuck I can’t.” Ben stands in the kitchen doorway with his shirt collar stretched over one shoulder, half-off. He always takes his shirt off the second he gets home from work.

Without taking her eyes off the screen, Rey pats the loveseat next to her. “You have a filthy mouth, but you can’t talk dirty, and that’s fine, I love you, will you please sit down and watch with me?” 

Mistake.

Because, as Rey always forgets. At this point, Valentine’s Day is not about legitimate affection. It's not a celebration of love or a chance to touch base and communicate about the relationship. Valentines Day is one thing.

A competition.

He walks around the couch and confiscates her bowl of popcorn.

“Hey!” Rey snatches for it.

He grabs her by the ankles and spreads her open, jerking her sideways so she falls against the armrest with her legs splayed, one knee over the back of the couch. He hooks the lace gusset of her overpriced underwear aside with one finger, ducks his head, and lavs at her clit.

Rey gasps. Her head thuds against the armrest.

“I ever tell you you taste like cake frosting?” He mumbles, in between licks.

“It’s a little tired.” Rey mumbles. Her voice is lofty. Nonchalant, even. She gives herself points for that. Her fingers sift through his hair and she wriggles up onto her elbows to watch.

He spreads her with two fingers and noses her clit, eyes meeting hers over her belly. “You’re wet.”

“‘You’re wet’?” Rey parrots back to him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Not dirty talk. Just making an observation.” he draws her clit into his mouth and rolls it with his tongue.

“Baby, it’s okay.” Rey pets his hair, fondly. “You’re good at other things.”

Five Valentine’s Days ago, they didn’t have this. Neither of them ever had anyone they could tease. Rey never felt secure enough to risk the other person taking her seriously.

But she can afford to hazard an insult now and again. Ben isn’t going anywhere.

“All I’m saying is you’re easy for me.” Ben shrugs, and his annoyingly broad shoulders wedge her legs open even further.

She opens her mouth to say something witty, and then the bastard sucks her clit into his mouth and fucking hums. 

And who cares if he can't talk dirty? He can do this. 

He licks and sucks and lets off too soon, with a lewd smacking sound, like a loud kiss. “Get on your fucking knees.” he murmurs.

She flips over shakily, hands scrambling for purchase on the couch cushions. Her kimono is torn off and flung to the floor in a pile of feathers and glitter. She hears a zipper.

The head of his cock drags over her clit in circles.

“Beg me for it.”

“Doesn’t count.” she grumbles.

He grabs her hair, hard and fast. You know, you don’t _have_ to come.”

Rey swallows hard. He isn’t kidding. She knows from experience.

“It doesn’t count as dirty talk if I’m doing the begging.” she shifts her hips experimentally, and his hand seizes around her hip.

“Fine.” he grits out. He’s not angry, not really. But Rey knows that tone. It’s the one he uses when she’s speaking a little too highly of Finn, or when she fakes an orgasm and he catches her. It’s not a dangerous tone. There’s not a remote parallel universe across the multiverse where he could ever be a danger to her. But. Well. It’s not a _safe_ tone either.

“Fine.” he says again. The head of his cock digs in a slow, deliberate circle around her entrance. “Beg for my cock, you little whore.”

It’s not the most original thing she’s ever heard. But it gets her.

Rey curls forward, bracing herself against the cushions. She manages to wrench out a single, plaintive, wavering, “Please.”

“Good girl.”

She ducks her head and looks at where they’re connected, as his cock saws through the drenched seam of her sex, her plush pink folds splayed wide the weight of it. Her body strains to accommodate him. There’s a dull pinch of pain— there always is— and then Ben slams forward, and Rey remembers just _why_ it doesn’t matter he can’t talk dirty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, meant to get these finished by the fourteenth-- something came up. But thank you so much for reading the whole way through! Hope you had a Happy Valentine's Day!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I live for themed things.  
> Legit psyched for Valentine’s Day chocolates. I don’t care how gross and processed they are.  
> Happy Valentines Day! Thanks for reading!


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